


Life on Standby

by TweekTweak



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Borderline Personality Disorder, Dissociation, Post-Break Up, Self-Harm, Suicide, the ex isn't gendered or named so use your fav pairing!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 20:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21785005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TweekTweak/pseuds/TweekTweak
Summary: The first time we fuck for the last time, it’s like heaven, and I’m trying to ignore the fact that your hands have touched another.
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Unnamed Ex
Kudos: 4





	Life on Standby

**Author's Note:**

> Very strong trigger warning for suicide. I'm sorry for putting you through this Craig, but I do love a good angst. Pretty much a vent fic based on my own situation at the moment. Enjoy. Bonus points if you get the title reference.

When you left, I pretended I didn’t care.

Or, I tried to pretend, anyway.

Despite the exasperation in your voice, and the uncomfortably long silences in conversation whenever we talk, when I cave in and pick up the phone, punch in your number, then put down my phone… I always pick it back up and call you anyway.

“Craig?” an irritable voice answers, “Why the _fuck_ are you calling me at 3am?”

“I-, I just wanted to hear you speak,” I whisper back, closing my eyes and trying to pretend that you’re lying beside me, instead of someone else.

“I have work tomorrow, you asshole!” you sound so angry, but I don’t miss your voice softening just a little. “I’ll speak to you soon, okay?”

It’s not enough, but what else am I supposed to say? “Okay.”

Days begin blending together, but I still can’t cut away your presence from the front of my brain. Memories burn themselves into the backs of my eyelids, and I don’t talk to anyone anymore, instead spending my time waiting for your name to light up my phone with a message that’s never going to come.

The first time we fuck for the last time, it’s like heaven, and I’m trying to ignore the fact that your hands have touched another. For a few minutes I can pretend that nothing has changed, because you look so perfect lying there beside me naked, with your eyes gently lidded, breath soft in your chest in post-orgasmic bliss.

But then it changes when you pull on your clothes and I have to leave, and then I’m sinking and sinking again. Choking on cigarette smoke and cheap whisky doesn’t do much to numb the pain, it just burns my throat and makes me cough up the lungs that used to breathe you in.

Then I stopped again, because you hate the smell of smoke and the taste of liquor in my kiss, but why do I keep trying to please someone who gave up on me like I was nothing more than a broken toy to cast aside?

Blood splashes into my bathroom sink and I pretend that I don’t know how it got there, while you care for someone who isn’t me. I clean my arm up.

Your friends told you to block me.

I’m gone from your life.

I can’t phone you anymore. I’m not allowed. You don’t want me. Bad. Quiet.

Why do I only want you now that I don’t have you? It’s a question that I might never know the answers to; why did we spend time arguing and fighting pointless fights when we could have been spending those days loving every inch of each other?

I still love you anyway.

Why doesn’t anything feel real? Why don’t I feel real? I’m not real. Were you? Were we?

I hope you’re happy with him.

I’m sorry you weren’t with me.

I lift one foot away from the chair tentatively, feeling the stool shaking underneath my weight. Something pools in the pit of my stomach, more intense than any orgasm I could’ve ever dreamt of sharing with you, and I feel the scratch of rope against my neck.

I close my eyes for a moment, then, as they begin to flutter open again, I kick my free leg back down sharply, hearing the wooden stool slip out from beneath me and tip to the floor with a loud crash. The ligature tightens around my neck, constricting it, and I feel my legs thrash uncontrollably, desperately searching for solid ground.

Black dots begin to fuzz into my periphery, and any breath my lungs are trying to pull in is unsuccessful. My throat hurts.

Everything is so dark. Everything is so bright. Everything is gone.


End file.
